Meals were not served in Captain d'Antons' cabin. The little settlement possessed but one servant among all its workers, and that one was Maggie Stone, Mistress Westleigh's old nurse. The care of Sir Ralph's establishment was all she could attend to. So the men who had no women-folk of their own to cook for them were fed by Dame Trigget and her sturdy daughter Joyce, or by the Donnelly women. Kingswell and D'Antons took their meals at Dame Trigget's table, and were served by themselves, with every mark of respect. Ouenwa, Tom Bent, Harding, and Clotworthy shared the Donnellys' board.

A few hours after Black Feather's rescue, Kingswell and D'Antons sat opposite one another at a small table near the hearth of the Triggets' living-room. A stew of venison and a bottle of French wine stood between them. D'Antons took up the bottle, and made as if to fill the other's glass.

"One moment," said Kingswell, raising his hand.

The Frenchman looked at him keenly and set down the vintage. The Englishman leaned forward.

"Captain d'Antons," he said, scarce above a whisper, "a remark that you made to-day seemed to imply that you considered me a braggart. Your remark was in reference to the brushes between the Pelican and a party of natives during our cruise from the North. Before I take wine with you to-night, I want you to either withdraw or explain your implication."

While Kingswell spoke, the other's eyes flashed and calmed again. Now his dark face wore an even look of puzzled inquiry. His fine eyes, clear now of the expression of cynicism which so often marred them, held the Englishman's without any sign of either embarrassment or anger. His hand returned to the neck of the bottle and lingered there. Lord, but the drama lost an exceptionally fine interpreter when the high seas claimed Pierre d'Antons! The thin, clean-shaven lips trembled—or was it the wavering of the candle-light?

"My friend," he said, softly, "how unfortunate am I in my stupidity—in my blundering use of the English language. Whatever my words were, when I spoke of having already heard of your fights with the savages, my meaning was such that no one would take exception to. Did I use the word heroic, monsieur? Then heroic, noble, was what I meant. An Englishman would have made use of a smaller, a simpler word, perhaps; or would have refrained from any display of admiration. Ah, I am unfortunate in my heritage of French and Spanish blood—the blood that is outspoken both for praise and blame."

Poor, honest Kingswell was shaken with conflicting emotions. His heart told him the man was lying. His eyes assured him that he had been grievously mistaken, not only in the matter of the remark concerning the skirmishes with the Beothics, but in his whole opinion of the Frenchman. His blood surged to his head, and whispered that he was a young fool to be hoodwinked so easily. His brain was sadly uncertain. A twinge of pity for the handsome adventurer—for the love-struck buccaneer—went through him. But it faded at remembrance of Sir Ralph's story. He knew the fellow was playing with him.

"Wine, monsieur?" inquired D'Antons, softly, with a smile of infinite sweetness and shy persuasion.

With a mumbled apology, the young Englishman pushed forward his glass, and the red wine swam to the brim. And all the while he was inwardly cursing his own weakness and the other's strength. He had not the courage to meet the Frenchman's look when they raised their glasses and clinked them across the table. Lord, what a calf he was!

Had he no will of his own? Did he possess neither knowledge of men nor mother wit? Ah, but he rated himself pitilessly as he bent his flushed face over his plate of stew.

When the meal was finished, Kingswell returned to Black Feather's couch, and D'Antons went over to his own cabin. By this time Black Feather had recovered consciousness and swallowed some of Dame Trigget's broth; also, he had recognized Ouenwa and murmured a few words to the lad in his own tongue. But, beyond that, he was too weak to disclose anything of what had happened in Wigwam Harbour after the slaying of Soft Hand. He lay very still, apparently lifeless, except for his quick, bright eyes, which moved restlessly in questioning scrutiny of the strange women and bearded men who sat about the room. Ouenwa held one of the transparent hands and smiled assuringly.

For half an hour Kingswell sat beside the man he had rescued so courageously from death by starvation. Then, feeling the heat of the room and the confusion of his thoughts too much to entertain calmly, he went out into the cold and darkness and paced up and down. All unknowing, he kicked the snow viciously every step. He was still in a perturbed state of mind and temper when William Trigget approached him through the gloom and touched his elbow.

"Askin' your pardon, master," he said, standing close, "but what of that Injun in there? Be he really sick, or be he playing a game?"

"He is surely sick, and he is just as surely not playing a game," replied Kingswell. "But why do you ask? The fellow is a friend of Ouenwa's, and was one of old Soft Hand's warriors."

"Ay, sir, but maybe mun has changed his coat," said Trigget, "an' has shammed sick just to get carried inside the fort. There be something goin' on outside, for certain."

"What?" asked the other.

Then Trigget told how he had been startled, while standing under the gun-platform, by a sound of scrambling outside the stockade. He had crawled noiselessly up the ladder and looked over the breastworks about the guns. He had been able to distinguish something darker than the surrounding darkness crouched against the palisade under him. The thing had moved cautiously. He had detached a faggot from one of the bundles beside him, for lack of a better weapon, and had hurled it down at the black form. There had sounded a stifled cry, and the thing had vanished in the night.

"It were one o' they savages, I know," concluded Trigget.

Kingswell forgot his personal grievance in the face of this menace from the hidden enemy.

"The guards should be doubled," he said. "But come, we must let Sir Ralph know of it."

They crossed the yard to the baronet's cabin and knocked on the door. Maggie Stone admitted them to the outer room, where Sir Ralph and Mistress Beatrix were seated, the girl reading aloud to her father by the light of one poor candle. But the great fire on the hearth had the place fairly illuminated.

William Trigget, undismayed by fog and bad weather, cool in any risk of land or sea, was too abashed at the presence of the lady to tell his story. So Master Kingswell told it for him.

"The guards must be doubled," said Sir Ralph.

"They be that already, sir," replied Trigget, breaking the spell of the bright eyes that surveyed him.

"That is well," answered the baronet. "There is nothing else to be done, at least until morning, but sleep light and keep your muskets handy."

Kingswell and the master mariner returned to the darkness without.

"I will stake my word," said Kingswell, "that the place is surrounded by the devils even now, and that they will try again to get a man over the wall to unbar the gates."